


salt and sea glass

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Injury, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reincarnation, Romance, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: After ages trapped in the darkness, Jon finally escapes his prison and washes up on shore, desperate to find the others of his kind who were locked away from the light. The world has changed, though, and forgotten old tragedies. It's a newer, younger kind of magic that fills it now, and Jon has little idea how to navigate a place so different from what he remembers.Rex, a witch who has a minor talent for small spells, picks up a strange man on the side of the road, with no idea of the wheels he's setting into motion with one simple act of kindness.
Relationships: Jon Antilles/CT-7567 | Rex
Comments: 64
Kudos: 590





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing weekly updates on two (2) fics, so I can allow myself another RexJon WIP. As a treat.

There's a storm brewing when Jon finally drags himself up onto shore, and the world is dim grey and roiling. The wind moans down the canyon, lashes the golden grasses on the jut of land that shelters one side of the beach, and whips the waves into white froth as they crash and retreat. Jon can feel it rising, can feel the way the forest on the other side leans into the press, the electric hum of thunderheads rising. There's rain starting, too, stinging, scattered drops that strike like hailstones, but—

Jon breathes air for the first time in an age, and it hums in his blood.

The wind _screams_ down the gorge cut by the river, howls as it spills out across the coastline and meets the bulwarks of the towering stones in the sea. Pines dance, and oaks creak, and Jon closes his eyes and raises his face to the storm, breathing in. Breathes out, and the wind wails over the grassy hill and the open beach, strong enough that it’s hard to stand against. A wash of cold surf tumbles over Jon's feet, then drags back, pulling the bloody sand around him out with it, and Jon turns, looks back out at the open ocean.

He can't see the moon beyond the clouds, but in his bones he knows it’s low and red, that a star shines gold right beside it. It’s an alignment he’s been waiting for, even locked away and dreaming, but now that the moment is here, he doesn’t know what to do.

The last time he walked here, it was far, far different. He’s watched the changes, in his dreams, has felt them in his being, but it’s still jarring to step into them. There's so much to be done, and so much to stop, but—

Everything starts with a step.

Trailing seawater, the cold wind cutting through his dripping clothes, Jon heads up the beach. There's a cliff covered in blackberries and tangled trees, but feet have found a path and pressed it into the stone, a narrow trail that turns in switchbacks up the slope. The wind makes it treacherous, but Jon catches leaning limbs and jutting rocks, pulling himself up between the worst of the gusts. There are bloody footprints on the stone behind him, and his feet ache, but he keeps going, staggering up the last stretch of the cliff where thimbleberries grow rampant and manroot swallows the line of boulders set up as a barrier.

Beyond it is pavement, still warm from the sun before the storm swallowed it.

Jon comes to a halt at the edge of it, looking from the slope of a narrow road that leads upwards to the spur of land in the distance. The grasses, all summery gold, look like the waves beyond as they move in the wind, and it’s tempting to turn, to go that way, to lie down in the rain and take a rest, but—

Jon has a task in front of him, and he can't waste time.

Grim, determined, he turns back to the road. The first step on hard pavement makes him wince, but he keeps moving, trying not to pay attention to his shredded feet. His arms hurt, too, but the cuts there are fewer, more scattered, and he can ignore them more easily.

The rain is picking up now, bitingly cold, and Jon tries not to let the weight of exhaustion pull him back down towards the ocean as he forges forward.

The narrow, one-lane drive leads up to a wider road, still narrow where it spills from the gorge. The river is below, swelled with rain, and a low guardrail is the only barrier between the road and the drop-off straight down into the raging water. Jon can't see any cars, but he still keeps close to the guardrail; the other side of the road is a sheer cliff that rises into a mountain, leaning over the road like the whole thing is about to spill down on top of it, and there's even less room on that side to avoid anyone coming. The day is darkening even further as night edges closer, and Jon's clothes are water-darkened. He’s hardly going to be visible as it is.

The canyon cuts inland, but not far. Jon can feel the way the earth splits, the turn of it; this is the best way to the coastline that runs north of here, which is where Jon's feet are being pulled. It’s going to be a long walk, but that’s all right. It’s his own fault, after all. If he’d been thinking, if he’d been planning, he would have come out near the feet of the forests to the north, but this was the closest stretch of land, and he’d been entirely desperate to get out of the water, to feel true earth under his feet again.

If walking through the canyon is the price he has to pay for that, he doesn’t mind.

There's no shoulder to the road here, but the only cars that pass as Jon makes his slow way up the gorge are on the other side, headlights dull in the storm-light. Lighting dances overhead, its reflection bright on the river’s surface, and the rain abates, returns, abates again. The shadows stretch long and deep, and as a truck with a rattling engine approaches from behind Jon they twist strangely, showing an edge of something vast in his own shadow for just an instant before they're gone.

The truck passes him at a careful distance, wary of the sharp corners and sheer cliff but still moving over to give him space, and Jon turns his head to watch it pass, gaze lingering on the broken taillight for a moment before it disappears around the next curve.

Out at sea, the storm breaks. Jon can feel the wash of it, the rain on the sea, the cool wind that moans over the rocks and the sand. It’s a little like relief, and he smiles even though he’s tired, even though he aches. The storm is breaking, and beyond it the red moon is rising, and the star beside it is glowing like a beacon, like a key. There's earth beneath his feet, and rain and wind on his face, and the whole world is listening.

Jon's missed this. He’s missed it so much he _hurts_ with it.

He rounds the next corner, careful of a scattering of loose gravel cast across the pavement, and comes to a stop, startled. There's a narrow turnout in the bend of the road, perilously close to the cliff, and idling in it is a truck with a broken taillight, a vague, rust-colored shadow in the gloom. Standing beside it, leaning back against the driver’s door, is a man in a canvas coat, the hood pulled up, and he’s looking right at Jon.

Quickly, the man straightens, shoving his hood back enough to show his face, and takes three quick steps towards Jon. “Hey,” he says, and comes to a stop there, body titled towards Jon, but not in threat. “Are you all right? Did you break down?”

A little surprised to be addressed, Jon hesitates, not sure how to answer. Not sure how to take the warm thread of genuine concern that he can feel, bright against the darkness. “No,” he says after a moment. “I don’t have a car.”

“Oh.” Jon sees the shadow of the man’s frown, but it only lasts a second before he’s stepping back, jerking his head at his truck. “Come on, let me give you a ride. There's been enough rain lately that they're talking about mudslides on this road, and the storm’s picking up.”

A ride. Up the canyon, likely. Still, Jon hesitates, looking at the man, at his truck, and then down at himself.

“I'm all wet,” he says honestly. “And I’ll get blood in your truck.”

It’s meant to be a deterrent, but it has the opposite effect. There's an indrawn breath, and the man takes two steps closer, until he’s almost close enough to touch. “ _Blood_?” he asks. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

The kindness inherent in the question makes something in Jon's chest soften. What a thing to have forgotten, but what a good thing to be reminded of all the same. “I'm all right,” he says quietly. “It’s just my feet.”

The man’s eyes flicker down, and he grimaces. “Well, if you’re walking barefoot over all of this, it’s no surprise,” he says, and takes another step closer, then hesitates. “Please,” he says. “You shouldn’t be walking if your feet are already _bleeding_. I can take you wherever you want. There's a town on the other side of the gorge, or there's a city about two hours from here, if you want to go there.”

“The town is fine,” Jon says, and then, “Thank you.”

He means it. This…isn't something he expected. He knows how humans can be, and yet this man is simply helping, without hesitation or thought given to himself.

“Thank _you_ ,” the man says, and his smile is rueful as he steps close, slides an arm around Jon's waist and pulls one of Jon's arms over his shoulders. It only takes a little of the weight off Jon's feet, but it’s still a relief, and he hisses out a breath between his teeth. “I passed you on my way down, and when I saw you this time I thought I’d better offer, or I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.” He casts a sideways glance at Jon as they pick their way towards his truck, and asks, “Want me to take you to the doctor? He’ll get out of bed for me if I call him.”

“No,” Jon says, and grips the edge of the truck as the man ducks away to open the passenger door. The metal hums under his hand, a curious sound, and he drags his fingers over a dent that runs just below the edge, watching it repair itself in his wake. “I’ll be all right, thank you.”

“If you're sure,” the man says, a little doubtful, but pulls several folded blankets from the back and tosses one over the seat, then spreads a second out over the floor. The last one he wraps around Jon, and says, “Sorry, I don’t have any changes of clothes with me. Come on, do you need help to get in?”

“I’ll get blood all over your blanket,” Jon says, bemused.

The man snorts. “That’s what it’s there for. It’s a spare, anyway, so don’t worry about it. Here.” He offers his shoulder, and Jon rests his hand there, feeling strong muscle under his fingers. Getting a grip on the far side of the seat, he pulls himself up and in, careful not to leave more than one red footprint on the blanket before he settles. Carefully, the man closes the door, then jogs around to the other side and pulls himself in, turning on the windshield wipers as the rain starts to clatter against the glass.

“I'm Rex,” he says, and in the overhead light, Jon can make out strong features, dark eyes. “Am I taking you anywhere in particular in town?”

“I'm Jon,” Jon says quietly, and considers the question. He has no human money, no leads to help him find what he’s looking for. He knows he needs to get to the coastline further north, but there's little certainty beyond that. And with the storm—

“Is there…a shelter?” he asks, and it will at least be good enough for the night. In a few days, when the storm clears, he can sleep in the forest and that will be fine.

Rex glances over at him, then slowly slides his hood off, mouth twisted like he’s considering something. Beneath the hood, his hair is pale blond, cropped close to his skull, and just a little spiky from the rain.

“There isn't a shelter,” he says at length. “Not until we hit the city. But my house is just outside of town, and you're welcome to stay with me. I’d like to see to your feet, too, if you're all right with it.”

Jon blinks at him, caught off guard by the offer. “I'm a stranger,” he points out, because things haven’t changed _that_ much in the ages he was locked away.

Rex's smile is a little crooked. “You know my name, I know yours,” he counters. “I've had one-night stands that didn’t even get that far. If you'd rather stay in town, though, I’ll pay for a room at the bed and breakfast myself, if you want.”

It’s…too much kindness. Jon has to swallow, has to tip his head down to hide behind the straggly wet strands of his hair. He’s been trapped for so long, and everything he once knew has been swallowed up, but—

“Thank you,” he says again. “If you’re willing to put me up until the storm is over—”

“As long as you need,” Rex says, and pulls back out onto the road. “My brother’s dropping by tomorrow, but the house is quiet.” He pauses, and then says, “Sorry, maybe you like noise—”

Jon leans sideways, resting his temple against the cool glass of the window and pulling Rex's blanket a little more rightly around himself. He’s still cold, and he’s exhausted, and his feet are throbbing, but he smiles, and it’s easy.

“No,” he says. “I don’t mind the quiet.”

It’s not the constant, churning crash of his prison, too loud to even hear himself think. It’s a soft silence, and he can hear Rex breathing even over the rattle of the rain on the windshield, the tires on the road. When he closes his eyes, there's no risk of thinking himself back where he was.

Where he is right now is the only thing that matters.

The road is narrow and full of switchbacks, and with the threat of rockslides Rex doesn’t quite dare look away even though he’s done this drive countless times. It’s not until he’s across the last bridge and pulling out into the wide gravel turnout just beyond the canyon, where his driveway starts, that he risks a glance over at his passenger.

Cody is probably going to yell at him for this, Rex thinks ruefully, and comes to a careful stop by his mailbox. When he opens the door, the overhead light comes on, but Jon doesn’t stir. He’s fast asleep, curled against the door, and Rex saw up close that he was a big man, but he’s managed to tuck himself down into a surprisingly small bundle of lanky limbs and wet clothes, still wrapped in Rex's spare blanket.

Rex has to wonder what kind of person can walk their feet bloody and then only worry about ruining a stranger’s upholstery. Wonders, too, what kind of thing can drive a person to that.

He should probably be more careful. This is how too many stories start, and few of them are pleasant for those involved. Just looking at the human aspect of it, the situation might be alarming, but—

Rex slides out into the pounding rain, pulling his hood up, and doesn’t bother to look back, to make sure Jon isn't about to spring upright and steal his truck. He checks his mail, collects a few letters and a small package, and then slides back in, setting it in the backseat and closing the door quietly. Jon still doesn’t stir, and in the flare of brilliance before the overhead light winks out, Rex catches a glimpse of something dark smeared across his wrists, something dark on the blanket at his feet.

It doesn’t look red, in that bare moment. But then, Rex doesn’t get a good look at it, and the storm-shadows are playing tricks on him anyway.

The road that cuts into the forest, between old-growth trees draped in moss and ferns, is rutted, rain already pooling in the depressions. Rex tries to ease over them as carefully as he can, but the truck bounces and jolts, and flickers of lightning through the trees wash everything in jagged, too-bright light that the headlights can't hope to match. It’s a bad storm, particularly for this time of year, and Rex mutters a curse as a gust of wind sends the rain sheeting sideways, sets the huge old trees to groaning as they shift. If at least a few limbs don’t come down overnight, he’s going to be surprised, and he makes a mental note to warn Cody to bring a saw when he comes. Assuming he can get through the canyon at all, by the time this is over.

It’s a relief when the angular lines of Rex's house come into view through the trees, the A-frame cabin tucked back against a grove of particularly tall trees and at least a little shielded from the weather. Rex parks, then eyes the flight of stairs up to the deck and the main door and grimaces. It’s not a long flight, but it’s steep, and Rex saw the pain on Jon's face just getting into the truck. Subtle, well-hidden, but—the stairs definitely aren’t going to be fun for him.

As lightning cuts across the sky again, Rex grimaces and gets out, grabbing his mail and then circling around to the bed to grab heavy plastic tote full of herbs and plant cuttings that Waxer sent him home with. He leaves Jon sleeping where he is as he lugs it up to the porch, then shoves it inside and uses it to prop open the door. A glance around proves it’s clean enough for company, more or less, and Rex clears a pile of laundry he hasn’t gotten around to folding yet off the couch, then heads back down.

The storm is only getting worse, all the trees tossing as the wind rages, huge trunks groaning. What little light there was is dying down to embers, and Rex curses himself for not turning on the floodlights as he rounds the truck, getting a hand on Jon's door. A knock at the window isn't enough to stir him, and Rex tries once more, then gives in and carefully opens the door. Reaching through the crack, he gets a hand on Jon's shoulder, bracing him—

Jon jerks, twitching away from the touch as if Rex punched him. He turns, quick, startled, and Rex lets the door fall open the rest of the way and raises his hands.

“Sorry to wake you,” he says, “but the couch is nicer than the truck, if you're going to sleep.”

It seems like it takes a moment for Jon's eyes to focus, but after a long pause they settle on Rex, sharpen. Jon breathes out, then nods, and before he can try to climb out on his own Rex reaches out to offer his shoulder.

Like last time, there's a careful hesitation, a deliberate sort of consideration before Jon sets his hand on Rex's shoulder, long fingers gripping lightly. Rex reaches out, wrapping an arm around his waist, and takes some of Jon's weight as he eases himself out of the cab. His feet hitting the ground makes him gasp, quiet and quickly swallowed, but Rex winces.

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have gotten you something to wrap your feet, it’s—”

“Fine,” Jon says, and the tight clutch at Rex's jacket is the only sign that anything’s wrong. “I'm all right.”

He doesn’t look all right. His steps are lurching, unsteady, and he moves gingerly, leaving footprints in the mud. Rex practically lifts him onto the first step, then pauses, eyeing him and casting a glance up the stairs.

“Think you’d trust me to carry you?” he asks, and—he can probably do it. He’s been hauling a lot of firewood recently, and he helped Wolffe building his new house. Jon is tall, but he’s not overly bulky, and it’s not _that_ far.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jon says quickly, but his first attempt at a step almost has his knees buckling, and Rex doesn’t wait for permission. He grabs Jon, pulling him up, and hears the shuddering breath against his throat as he lifts Jon clear off his feet, on arm around his back and the other under his thighs. There's an alarming handful of seconds when Rex can't quite catch his balance, when a particularly stupid gust of wind almost knocks him back on his heels and Jon's weight nearly finishes the job and sends him right onto his ass, but Rex manages to catch himself, steady his feet, and take the first step without entirely embarrassing himself.

“Okay?” he asks breathlessly, because Jon's death-grip around his neck isn't precisely comfortable, even if it’s entirely understandable.

“You're _ridiculous_ ,” is Jon's verdict, but he loosens his arms just a little, and Rex manages a laugh, hitching him up a little further. Jon isn't nearly as heavy as he thought, which is probably a bad sign in and of itself, but for now, Rex will take it.

“Excuse me, who’s getting carried like a princess here?” he demands, and there's a startled pause, then a rough laugh against his throat.

“Cinderella?” Jon asks, and Rex can feel his smile, quick and bare but pressed against Rex's skin like a secret.

“Think you need shoes for that,” Rex says with good humor, and tries not to think about the muscle under his arm, the heat of Jon's skin. His hair is soft, even wet, and the last time Rex carried someone like this, it was for the express purpose of tossing them into bed and following them down.

Rex kind of regrets his not-quite-joke about one-night stands, given the places his brain is currently going.

“Rapunzel, then,” Jon says, and Rex laughs before he can help it, hitching Jon up a little higher and taking a careful step up onto the slick deck. His boots hold well enough, and he crosses the space, then turns sideways to get through the door.

“Need longer hair,” he points out, and then warns, “I’m putting you down. Careful.”

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t pull away and try to help. He just goes still, pliant but unresisting as Rex carefully squats down and drops him on the couch. His feet hit the floor, and he hisses, but doesn’t flinch away as Rex catches his knees and tugs his legs up to slide a pillow under them.

“Don’t move,” Rex says, straightening. “I need to clean those cuts. Let me just grab some things.”

“All right,” Jon says peaceably, and Rex leaves him there, shutting the front door and then heading for the kitchen to find a tub. All he has that’s the right size is the plastic bin he uses for picking blackberries, though, and it’s definitely too small. Huffing a quiet curse, he shoves it under the tap and fills it with warm, soapy water, then collects a several cloths and his first aid kit and heads back to the couch, turning on lights as he goes. It’s been sunny enough the last few weeks that his solar cells can more than keep the cabin going until the storm fades, and he needs the light to see what he’s doing.

It’s nice to get a clear look at Jon, too, though Rex is less willing to admit that. The glimpses in the truck were scattered, but—

There's something strange about Jon. Something that tugs at Rex's senses in an odd way as he watches Jon unbutton his wet shirt. It’s hard to tell what it is, because it’s not _quite_ attraction, though there's a trace of that too. Jon's face is all stark lines and angles, weathered scars and eerily pale eyes, not precisely handsome but arresting, and there's an edge to his quiet manner that catches Rex's attention. He can't explain it, can hardly even fit it into words.

Outside, a low rumble of thunder practically shakes the cabin, and Rex pauses, listening to it fade away. Turns his head—

Outside, the wind chimes he has strung up on the eaves start clattering. All of them, not just on the side of the house that faces the wind. Rex freezes as the cacophony rises, surrounding the house, wood and metal and glass all chiming and shifting and ringing. Above them, louder, sharper, there's a crack of thunder, a rumble that’s lower and closer and deeper, like rocks sliding. It really makes the cabin tremble, glasses clicking together in the cupboards, and Rex catches himself with a hand on the wall, watching the water in the basin ripple.

From the couch, there's a breath. Jon lifts his head, fingers stilling on the wet cuffs of his jacket, and he frowns.

“Oh,” he says, and his head cocks, pale eyes going distant for a moment, like he’s focused on a sound that Rex can't hear. “A rockslide.”

With an eerie hush, the windchimes fall silent, and the only sound that’s left is the drumming rain.

“Must be,” Rex manages after a long moment, and crosses the room to set the basin down at Jon's feet. His skin is prickling, and there's something humming across his nerves that’s unrelated to the electricity in the air.

Or maybe it is. The storm brewed up quickly, after all, and seemed to come from nowhere just after noon. Rex had watched it cover the full moon, day-pale and drifting, and felt that same flicker of uncertainty.

There are a lot of stories about this part of the world. A lot of tales that start here, and even more than end here. Rex isn't sure which he dreads more.

“Here,” he says, rather than dwelling on it. “Rinse your feet off, and I’ll bandage them. How’d you get them so cut up, anyway?”

“Walking on them,” Jon says, with just a flicker of humor in his voice. When Rex slants him an unimpressed look, he snorts quietly, and takes the cloth from Rex, leaning down as he slides his foot into the basin. The soap must sting, but there's only a faint tightening around his eyes to show it, and he focuses on scrubbing off the mud and sand as the water darkens. “They're not…cuts. Just. Burns.”

“Burns,” Rex repeats, startled, and looks down as Jon lifts his foot clear of the water.

With the dirt gone, it’s easy to see that they _are_ burns, some of them so bad the skin is red and raw, has split open to bleed freely. The burns climb Jon's ankles, up his calves, and Rex hisses in a breath, rocking back on his heels.

“Shit,” he says, disbelieving. “Were you standing in _coals_?”

Jon snorts. “I'm not that self-destructive,” he says dryly, but doesn’t offer any sort of explanation. Just leans down to take care of his other foot. It’s just as bad as the first, and Rex debates calling Kix regardless of Jon's objections as he watches Jon carefully dry his feet. Only the knowledge that Kit's ancient motorcycle probably won't make it through the gorge in this weather keeps him from doing it. Kix will definitely yell at him for it later, but for now, antibiotic cream and bandages are going to have to be enough.

“Let me get some clean water so you can rinse them,” he says quietly, and rises, taking the basin of muddy water with him.

Jon watches him for a long moment, then nods. “Be careful,” he says. “The storm’s going to get worse.”

A shiver curls down Rex's spine, and he hesitates, looking at the dark water. He’d been planning to dump it outside, but—

But.

When he dumps the water down the sink, he almost thinks he sees swirls of gold in the midst of the dirt, as liquid as blood but the wrong color.

The lights are casting strange reflections, he tells himself, and turns the tap on to wash it away.


	2. Chapter 2

In the darkness, the sound of the windchimes wakes him.

Jon stays where he is for a moment, curled on the couch with a pair of thick blankets tossed over him. He doesn’t remember going to sleep, but he can hear Rex breathing from the loft above, steady and even. The rain beats heavily on the roof, and one of the windchimes is ringing.

Slowly, carefully, Jon sits up, sliding his feet off the couch. They're bandaged, and even that much cushion between the burns and the hard floor is a relief. Standing is a little harder, but Jon moves regardless, gets his feet beneath him and rises, and if the ache is sharp it’s also ignorable. Jon has suffered worse.

The windchime is still ringing, strands of shells and sea glass clattering and chiming over the dark noise of the storm. Jon limps across the shadowy room, soundless, and gets a hand on the door, pushing gently. The lock clicks, opening instantly, and the door swings out, letting in a whirl of cold air and colder rain. For a long moment, Jon simply stands there, watching the darker shapes of the trees around them sway and shift. It’s somewhere close to dawn, because the air is lighter, but the storm isn't lifting, and Jon knows it won't. Not yet.

He takes a step out onto the deck, letting the door fall shut behind him. Another, another, even though it splinters pain up through his feet, until he hits the railing of the deck and leans over it, closing his eyes against the wind. The whole forest is groaning as the wind moves it, branches and trunks forced into motion beneath the rain, and below the forest the earth is humming. There's an awareness Jon missed, vast and quiet but watchful, and Jon wants to reach for it, but he holds himself back. Not while the storm is still raging. He isn't that reckless.

Beside him, the windchime swirls, long chains twisting as it rings, and Jon glances at it, then out into the forest. It smells green, wet earth and conifers and ferns in the darkness, and the rain is cool on his face, trickling through his hair and dripping down his skin. In the distance, he can feel the sea breaking against stone, close enough to be a temptation. If Jon left now, if he walked down to the water and threw himself in—

With a shuddering breath, Jon digs his fingers into the railing and ducks his head, getting himself back under control. It’s just the storm talking. He _knows_ what will happen if he goes back to the sea too early. Knows who will find him, too.

He only just made it out of his prison. Going back is unthinkable.

“I know,” he says quietly to the forest, and the trees right above the cabin sway, sway, still. Like a ripple, the stillness spreads around the cabin, out into the darkness, and Jon raises his head, takes a breath.

There was a rockslide earlier. If he had still been walking—

But Rex's kindness meant he wasn’t.

Kindness is no small thing. Not now, and not like this. Thunder rattles through the air like grinding stone, like metal gates flung wide, and Jon drags his fingers sideways along the railing, smooth and well cared for. He can feel Rex's touch in the wood, warm and careful, the splash of stain in the sun. Can feel the care that’s in every inch of this cabin, turning it from a collection of dead wood to a home, and it’s full of small magics. Full of deliberation, and love, and that’s its own ritual, regardless of what other magics have faded from the world.

Rex's kindness puts him at risk. Things will look for him too, now, and Jon won't let him be found. With his own dose of deliberation, he reaches up, catching the windchime’s streamers, and at the touch of his fingers the sea glass starts to glow. It shines, as if there’s sunlight passing through it from an unknown source, and the shells murmur with the sound of the sea they came from in the breeze. Jon studies it for a long moment, then lets go, and it sways in the air, gleaming gently, whispering.

Sunlight has never been Jon's to twist, but it answers him anyway, and he’s grateful it remembers. Grateful this little bit of the old world remains, and he drags his fingers through the strands one more time and then turns his gaze away, letting it be. The echo of the ocean is still soft in his ears, like a temptation, but Jon breathes out, settles himself. Traces the edge of the coastline here, where the towering trees meet the water, and can all but see the columns of the sea stacks, crowned with conifers and grasses. The beat of the rain against them lives in Jon's blood, and he follows the line of the twisted rock, the spill of wildflowers clinging with stubborn roots.

The coastline has changed since the last time Jon walked here. The town has moved, and there are more lives settled into the soil, new generations, new magics. But the earth itself remembers, and so does the sea, and Jon will never forget.

“Jon? What are you doing out there?”

Jon glances back towards the cabin, offers Rex a small smile. “Watching the storm,” he says, and turns.

In nothing but sleeping pants, barefoot, skin still warm from his bed, Rex steps out into the storm and catches Jon's arm as he wavers slightly. “Watch it from inside, and off your feet,” he says, but it’s worried, not stern, and the arm he slides around Jon's waist takes his weight without hesitation.

Jon closes his eyes at the press of so much skin, the forgotten hum of blood and nerves and a beating heart, and breathes out. “Sorry,” he says quietly, and Rex casts him a sideways glance, but huffs a little.

“You're a local, aren’t you?” he asks with a trace of humor. “Only locals ignore the rain like that.”

Jon snorts, amused, and tips his face up to the rain one last time before they pass under the eaves. “It’s raining?” he asks, pretending surprise, and Rex laughs. It’s a warm laugh, vibrates through him and settles in Jon's chest, and a little of the tension in his spine eases.

“That’s a yes, then,” he says, and pushes the door open, then helps Jon across the floor. Not to the couch, this time, but to the small kitchen table set by a tall window that looks out over the back of the cabin. There's another deck there, with trees growing through it, and Rex guides Jon down into a chair and straightens, looking uncertain.

“I should change the bandages, since they got wet,” he says. “I can call the doctor in the morning—”

Jon slides his feet under the table, already feeling better with his weight off of them, and shakes his head. “The storm won't break today,” he says. “And the rockslide last night blocked the road.”

Rex pauses, silent, watching him. “Oh,” he says after a moment. “Did you hear something on the radio?”

Jon shakes his head again, but doesn’t offer an explanation. Just _knowing_ is less accepted now, but—more explainable, as well. “I hope I didn’t wake you up,” he says instead.

There's another beat of silence, and then Rex raises a brow, expression amused and unimpressed in equal measure. “The bandages?”

A little rueful, Jon offers him a smile. “They’ll dry,” he says. “You don’t need to waste bandages on me when I chose to stand outside.”

“It’s not _wasting_ ,” Rex corrects, but he passes Jon, heading for a narrow closet behind a bookshelf. A moment later, he reemerges with a towel, and he crosses to Jon's side, then crouches down at his feet. “Here, let me wrap them in this, at least. It should soak up some of the water, and I’ll change them for real after you shower.”

Jon stares down at the blond of Rex's hair, and something in his chest turns over. Care, he thinks, and kindness, and has to close his eyes. There are too many memories down that path.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and lets Rex carefully wrap his feet. “For all of this.”

Rex's fingers brush the unbroken skin on his ankle, one streak of flesh that managed to escape the burning. “You need it,” he says simply. “I wasn’t going to let you keep walking in the storm like that.”

As if to emphasize the point, there's a long, low rumble of thunder that trembles through the cabin. Jon waits it out, lets it fade away without impact, and says, “I still appreciate it. If there's anything I can do for you in return—”

Rex rises to his feet, face a little flushed. “Don’t turn out to be a serial killer,” he says. “Or a felon. My brothers will never let me live it down.” A pause, rueful, and he snorts. “Or a stripper or something, because I would _really_ never live that down.”

Jon can't help but reach up, fingers skimming the deep marks carved into his face before he catches himself and drops his hand. He doesn’t regret them, never has, but—

Even before the darkness came, he wasn’t a peaceful man. And afterwards, well. He earned every one of the scars he got.

“I don’t think anyone would mistake me for a stripper,” he says, and Rex blinks at him, then goes _very_ red.

“That’s—I would still—you could—” Rex stops short, then groans, pressing a hand over his face as he snaps his mouth shut. “There's no good way to get out of this, is there,” he says plaintively.

Jon ducks his head, trying not to laugh. Rex's embarrassment is clear, but—so is the fact that he means it. That alone means more than a thousand flowery speeches ever could.

“Changing the subject?” he suggests, trying very hard not to smile.

Rex's exhale is all exasperation. “I can hear you laughing at me,” he says, more resigned than accusing.

Jon swallows down his amusement, hiding his smile behind his tangled hair. “Thank you,” he says instead. “I'm just a traveler, though.”

“Traveling a long way?” Rex asks after a moment, and he turns away. The tips of his ears are still red.

Jon watches as he fills a kettle with water and sets it on the stove, fiddling with the knobs for a moment. “It felt like a long way,” he says truthfully. Curls his hands in front of him, thumb finding the newest scar that cuts down across his knuckles, and listens to the moaning of the trees around them. “I'm home now, though.”

There's a pause, and then Rex turns to face him, dark eyes thoughtful in the diffuse light. “Home,” he says. “You're from around here?”

With a small smile, Jon glances out the window, and in the darkness he can just make out the sky between the dancing trees, the flicker of lightning reflected off something vast. “Not here, precisely,” he says, and the curve of the coast is like another limb, stretching from the feet of the towering trees and running northward and southward. He doesn’t have to see to know the shape of it, the weight, the heavy, watchful press of its stately attention. “From further north a ways, by the delta.”

“Oh,” Rex says, tapping his fingers against the counter he’s leaning on. There’s a consideration to him as he watches Jon, something calculating, attentive. It makes Jon think of the coast itself, the same steady sort of weighing. “Do you have someone waiting for you there? Is there someone you can call?”

Jon shakes his head, and—he did once. But that was a very, very long time ago now. “I want to find people I lost,” he says quietly. “They're here. I just don’t know where.”

For a long moment, Rex doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as blink. There's an odd slant to his expression, not quite worry, not quite recognition, but—something close, maybe. “I don’t know anyone who lives up there,” he says. “But once the storm is over, I’ll take you into town. My grandfather’s been around for a while. He might know.”

Unless he’s like Jon, he won't have been around nearly long enough to know anything. The town is likely as good a place to start as any, though. Jon only has a short time before the star sets again, and then it will be too late.

“Thank you,” he says, a little rough, but—Rex has no reason to help him. Just kindness, a care Jon hasn’t experienced in longer than he can remember. “You're…doing far more than you need to. More than I can repay.”

Rex flushes a little. “It’s not for repayment,” he says. “You needed it, and I could, so I did.” Determinedly, he glances away, reaching for one of the cupboards. “Tea or coffee?”

Jon pauses, a little startled. He’s lived a thousand lives through other people’s dreams, but—

“I've never had coffee,” he admits.

Rex's brows rise sharply. “Never?” he asks. “Like bitter things?”

“Most things,” Jon says. It’s true enough. He hasn’t actually eaten since before he was locked away, but humans are always creative, and he enjoys that.

“Coffee it is, then,” Rex says. “Do you want to go back to the couch? I was going to start a fire in the woodstove, to take the chill off. Or you can shower if you want. I think I have clothes that will fit you.”

Jon missed this. Missed the human world, and _humans_ , and touch of Rex's hand on his shoulder as he passes. He closes his eyes, breathing out, and listens to the drumming rain. Feels the trees creak and sway, and the way lightning splits the air across the sea, casting shattered light across the sea stacks.

“A shower, if it’s not too much trouble,” he says, and starts to rise—

Rex's hand catches his shoulder, pushes him back down. “Stay off your feet,” he says firmly. “I’ll get it set up. Just give yourself some time.”

Jon only has so much time, but—enough. He sinks back down, casting Rex a crooked smile. “Thank you.”

Rex's ears go a little red, but he nods, squeezes Jon's shoulder, and steps away, disappearing into the other room. Jon can hear him, his heartbeat just a little bit quicker than normal, but—

It’s steady. It’s _warm_.

Jon closes his eyes, ignoring the sharp burn in his feet, and curls forward to rest his forehead on his folded arms. Focuses on the moaning wind, the whispering trees, the beat of the rain as it echoes in his bones. Beyond the cabin and the forest, the sea is crashing against the cliffs, desperate and angry, and Jon _aches_ to go to it.

Not yet, though. It’s not time. Not enough strands have been pulled together, and there's still far too much to do.

On the deck, the windchime rings, soft and carrying, and Jon breathes out.

Something’s different, Rex thinks suddenly, hands stilling on the lid of the box Waxer sent him home with.

It’s not Jon. The shower is still running, and there haven’t been any sounds from inside the bathroom that are out of the ordinary. It isn't the storm, which is still raging outside. Isn't the stove, which is off, or the lights, which haven’t flickered. But Rex _knows_ , deep in his bones and without warning, that something has changed.

He pauses, startled by himself, uncertain. There's a tingling in his spine that makes his heartbeat a little faster, his breath a little shorter. Something _alarmed_ , like a rabbit under the shadow of a circling hawk. Something’s wrong, he thinks, and sits back on his heels, glancing out the windows over the deck. The world outside is all murky light, day turned to gloom by the storm, and he can't see past the edge of the trees. But…

There's something out there, Rex thinks, and is sure of it with all the certainty of seeing it himself. He knows his land, and he knows his cabin, and something is _off_.

The instinct is to turn off all the lights, stay still in the darkness. It’s a sharp one, almost overwhelming, but that alone is suspicious. Rex has never been one to hide, and he frowns, carefully pushes to his feet. Casts a glance at the bathroom door just as the shower shuts off, and the prickle down his spine is colder, harder to ignore.

“Jon,” he says, pitched to carry through the wood. “Do you need help?”

A pause, a rustle of cloth. Rex can hear a ragged breath, and then a thump. “Please,” Jon says, hoarse, and Rex opens the door with something like fear curling in the back of his throat.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, feet in the draining water, Jon glances up at him, and his eyes are ghost-pale against the steam. Dark hair curls longer than Rex would have thought, over his shoulders and around his face, and just for an instant he looks like a starved thing, a gaunt, wasted shape that seems a breath away from vanishing, and Rex freezes, fingers digging hard into the wood.

He picked someone up on the side of the road in the storm. A hurt, lost man with no family here, just a vague search for people he used to know. This is a place where stories start, but—

Even more that that, it’s a place where stories _end_.

Slowly, carefully, Rex forces himself to breathe out, to relax. If he picked up a hungry ghost, or a wandering spirit, it can be dealt with. Rex probably would have stopped even if he’d known. And besides, there's no saying that’s what Jon _is_.

In the bathtub, in the circling water, he thinks he sees a flash of gold from the lights overhead, but it’s gone in a moment.

“Sorry,” Jon says quietly, and he’s watching Rex in return. Not a lean wraith anymore, but the man Rex picked up, looking oddly vulnerable sitting there with nothing but a towel over his lap. His chest and belly and thighs are just as scarred as his face, and there are strange tattoos curling across his shoulders, down his arms. They look like waves, or maybe like vines, or maybe like trees in the wind, but Rex can't quite tell which.

“Don’t be,” Rex says. Casts around for an excuse, and then says, “I think the power might go out. We should probably get down to the bottom level.”

Jon glances up, towards the skylight, and then back at Rex. He doesn’t argue, though, just inclines his head and says, “The storm’s getting heavier.”

Maybe that’s what Rex is feeling, but…it doesn’t seem right. There are eyes on them, dark and wrathful, and it makes his skin crawl.

“Yeah,” he says, a little halfhearted, and pulls the first aid kit off the counter. His stock of bandages and gauze pads isn't going to last much longer at this rate, but—there are enough until Kix can get here. He’s always willing to share his supplies. “How are your feet feeling?”

Jon leans down, carefully swinging his legs over the edge of the tub, and Rex winces a little at the sight of the burns, still awful and raw-looking. If Jon said someone buried his feet in hot coals, Rex honestly wouldn’t be surprised. But even so, Jon sets them on the floor like it’s nothing, like he didn’t walk most of the way up the canyon on wounds so bad Rex is reconsidering driving him two hours to the nearest hospital, even with the storm.

“Fine,” Jon says quietly, and there's nothing hesitant in his voice, no hint of bravado. Like it’s the truth, and he really is fine, and there's nothing to worry about when he shouldn’t even be standing. “I think the shower helped.”

Infection is going to be a big risk, Rex thinks with a grim breath. He finds the antiseptic, and warns, “This might hurt.”

But Jon isn't listening. He isn't looking at Rex, either. His gaze is focused out the bathroom door, trained on one of the windows overlooking the deck, and Rex takes one look at his face and freezes, perfectly still. There's—something. A darkness, in Jon's expression. Like deep ocean, or the witching hour in a lightless forest. Something dangerous by its very nature, and _vast_.

Rex lifts his hands from Jon's feet, and there's something golden smeared across his fingertips, thick like blood but shining in the light.

“Jon?” he asks, and the word wants to catch in his throat, wants to hitch the same way his heartbeat is stuttering.

“Something’s in the forest,” Jon says, low, and the wind howls down the canyon like a hurricane.

Rex can't breathe, a fist around his lungs. Static prickles across his skin, shivers down his spine, and he rises. Jon does, too, and before Rex can even open his mouth to protest, Jon is slipping past him, heading for the front door.

On the floor behind him, his footprints burn golden.

 _Oh_ , Rex thinks, and a shiver of something too large to understand washes through him, vibrates in his bones like a tuning fork struck at just the right note. He takes a step after Jon, then another, but Jon is already at the door. Rex _knows_ he locked it, but it springs open at the touch of Jon's hand, and the wind roars through the trees, tossing them with the groaning cries of stressed wood and scraping branches. The rain redoubles, pouring down over their heads as Rex ducks outside, and the windchime Rex made and hung by the door is lashing, twisting like it’s about to break.

“Jon!” Rex calls over the roar of the storm. “Jon, _don’t_ —”

But Jon doesn’t make his way down the stairs, doesn’t head out into the dark forest. He comes to a stop at the railing, hands curling around the wood, and he should look ridiculous, a nearly-naked man standing in the storm. But—

Heat curls in the pit of Rex's stomach, too much to ignore, and he can't breathe. Jon's tattoos curl across his back, and it’s like they're shifting with the tossing trees, like light is running through the green and blue of the ink. Jon seems to glow in the darkness, more real than everything around him, and in the distance, Rex can hear the roar of the ocean as if he’s standing right above it.

 _Oh_ , Rex thinks, and swallows. Pulls back, just a step, as Jon closes his eyes, and thinks of the storm, the way Jon was walking, the strangeness of him. Rex saw him on the side of the road and had to stop, and in the moment it was just concern, just worry for another soul, but­

Stories end here. But stories start here, too. For the first time, Rex can't quite tell which one he thinks this is.

“There _is_ something,” Jon says, and the wind catches his hair, twists it around his face like tendrils of darkness bleeding out into the air. “Something _brought_ here, not born here.”

Rex breathes in, breathes out. Steels himself, and moves forward, until he’s a pace behind Jon at the railing. “There are lots of things that have settled here,” he says noncommittally.

Jon pauses, mouth pulling ruefully, and then inclines his head. “There must be,” he says. “But this one shouldn’t be lurking out here in the darkness.”

Rex isn’t about to argue with that. he’d _much_ rather nothing was lurking on his property, watching him from the shadows. “What do you need?” he asks, and Jon flicks a glance back. his eyes are that strange, unearthly blue, not quite right for any human face.

“The property boundary,” he says. “How far does it go?”

“Right down to the water.” Rex steps up beside him, and his skin prickles like there's lightning striking right beside him. But there isn't. There's just Jon. “Straight ahead of us, down to the shore, and about ten acres in either direction.”

Jon presses his fingers against the wood, drags them sideways. “It’s family land,” he says, fact instead of question.

Still, Rex nods. “Our clan’s lived here since before there were records,” he says. “All up and down this part of the coast. Not all of it is ours still, but—enough is.”

“Deep roots,” Jon says quietly. “No wonder the land doesn’t welcome strangers.”

Distant, almost swallowed by the wind, there's a rumble. Stones sliding, Rex thinks, glancing back towards the road, but he can't see anything. His heartbeat picks up, and he reaches out—

Jon's skin burns his fingertips, like molten stone forged into human shape. A yelp escapes before Rex can stifle it, and he jerks his hand back. The gold smeared across his fingertips is glowing, and he stares down at it for a moment, not quite able to get enough air, and raises his head.

Hot hands catch his face, and Jon leans in. He kisses Rex, a gentle, chaste thing that slants their mouths together slow and careful, and Rex can feel the wash of heat hit him full-on, the attraction he’s been trying to ignore wrenching tight in his gut. He drags Jon in, can't help it, and Jon tastes like ashes and salt water, dark but with an edge of bitter sweetness. His hair is wet under Rex's fingers, and Rex grips him tightly, pulls him in and kisses him harder, and it’s like he can _feel_ the roots that Jon means. The earth is breathing, and its breath vibrates through Rex's bones, sinks hooks deep into his being.

Jon is the conduit. Jon is breathing for the earth, and Rex can _feel_ it, the beat of Jon's heart in time with the wind, the lightning in his mouth, the ocean in his blood. It’s like kissing the storm itself, and Rex can't think, can't pull away, can't take it—

The wind howls past them, whipping the trees and sending needles and small branches raining down over them. The rain sheets sideways, and the ocean roars against the columns, breaks hard on the cliffs. It shudders through the earth, through Jon, through _Rex,_ and just like that the eyes in the darkness are gone.

Rex opens his eyes, catches Jon's pale gaze in the hazy storm-light. Breathes in, still able to taste the salt and ozone, and breathes out on a shuddering awareness that Jon is something he doesn’t have scope to describe.

The windchime rings softly, glass and shells clicking together, and the shine of it is a lone light in the darkness.

Rex doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do. But Jon is watching him, steady and strange but with kiss-bruised lips, and Rex has something golden and glowing smeared across his fingers, matching the footprints burned into his floor. He doesn’t have any idea how to react, but Jon is watching him. Desire is a harsh knot in Rex's stomach, and the urge to kiss him again is all but irresistible.

Rex doesn’t even try. He pulls Jon in, slanting their mouths together, and kisses him as the storm rages around them and the world breathes.


End file.
